


like patchwork

by softlees



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Idol-Verse, Lee Seokmin | DK-centric, Other, because i really couldn't think of another way 2 write this, but yea i love RHHB, im a love cannon for them, literally just me projecting rhhb love onto svt, thats pretty much it, yea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 08:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15408675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlees/pseuds/softlees
Summary: Seokmin loves his people. Undeniably so.(See, the thing is, when you look back at how you've grown over the years, you start to realize that you're not just one person, but a mixture of many other people.)





	like patchwork

**Author's Note:**

> this is an entirely self-indulgent clusterheck of many things i love about seventeen and the boys stitched together by incoherent ramblings & vague metaphors (its funny how words sometimes don’t perfectly convey all that you wanna say sometimes). mostly, this is for rhhb. happy rhh(bday) to us. there isn’t really a group of people i love more in my entire lifetime than you guys. no matter if you talk lots, or little, or something in between— you guys are my people. thank you for being there, thank you for all the funny conversations, all the spazztastic memes, for the strength of our bond, the fact that we’re not always active but still very much alive and kicking (ha! take that!).
> 
>  
> 
> i had originally planned for a summery sort of thing to commemorate our birthday, but plans fell apart (more like my writing did tbh) and i was in a sort of mood to make this piece. i’m. very happy with it, i think because it sort of represents us, in a way. throughout the year i have known you guys, you have shaped me a little bit, just as seventeen has shaped each other, and i’m forever grateful for you guys. i am tearing up writing this foreword and also have teared up writing this fic. hope i did them boys (them good boys) justice.

 

> **_SEUNGCHEOL._ **

 

Seokmin does not know what to make of Seungcheol, at first. He is a boy from Daegu, all tough dialects and manly exterior and plain  _ coolness _ , if Seokmin is going to be honest. The aura Seungcheol exudes is one that Seokmin wishes he could replicate, a macho sort of thing that really can’t ever be copied. And especially because Seungcheol has already been training here for years beyond Seokmin’s measly two, it is much easier for him to get everything down. The dance routines, the vocal trills, the practices. Seungcheol does it effortlessly, with so much grace that it hurts, sometimes, to look at him.

 

Seokmin looks at himself in the mirror and only sees what he is lacking.

 

Soonyoung tries to comfort him, by whispering about Seungcheol’s long training period, and how that was bound to give him an edge during practices. It becomes like clockwork, Soonyoung reasons, he’s done it so many times by now, surely. Seokmin just frowns. Just because this is the way it’s supposed to be doesn’t mean that Seokmin is any less intimidated.

 

Seokmin is young and painfully awkward. He has yet to grow into his gangly limbs, and his tummy doesn’t quite fit into the stereotype of boys he sees on the television, all v-lines and rock for muscle. It squishes a bit when he touches it, but his mom keeps writing and asking if he’s eating enough, and it doesn’t worry him as much as it does the other trainees. Besides, she worries about him, and so he does his best to soothe her worries by eating as much as he can, whenever can. He sighs, and squishes his tummy again. He bet Seungcheol has abs.

 

He bets Seungcheol has a lot of things he does not have, like a cool fashion sense, or a growly, deep rap tone.

 

(The only thing Seokmin has on Seungcheol is his voice. When he sings, he floats like a butterfly and touches the clouds. Someone told him once, when he had finished singing one of his favorite songs, that it sounded like heaven.)

 

_ Leader _ , they whisper about Seungcheol when they meet in the green room. They are all trainees, all of them, but it is almost as if there is an unspoken agreement, some kind of bizarre power hierarchy that kids tend to rearrange themselves in when left to their own devices for too long. Seungcheol deserves to be leader, they say, and well, Seokmin cannot disagree.

 

He is in the middle of huffing and puffing after one of their lessons, stuck in front of a mirror and trying to work out the kinks in the routine. There is this one move that he cannot get down for the life of him, and it frustrates the hell out of him, the fact that his mind and body will not cooperate as one. He wants desperately for it to be okay, so that he will not be called out again. He can't. He should not.

 

He hates feeling like this, like he is not good enough. More often than not, it sets deep in his bones, a sort of exhaustion that constantly nags at him, tells him he won't ever be able to do it, that he will never get to see the stage.

 

Funnily enough, the exhaustion gnaws at him heavier whenever Seungcheol is around.

 

He blows his hair out of his face, and wipes the sweat from his brow. Again. He has to, until he gets this down.

 

“You should move your elbow like this instead,” a voice comes from behind him. Seokmin whirls around to find Seungcheol staring at him, head tilted curiously. 

 

"Sorry?"

 

"I said," Seungcheol says, patient, "you should move your elbow like this instead." He does the move slowly, so that Seokmin can understand how to position his limbs so they'll visually match what the choreographers were showing in class thirty minutes before. Seokmin half expects Seungcheol to strangle his throat, or claw his eyes out in the very least, when it takes a good twenty more minutes for Seokmin to understand the mechanics of such a move, but the older boy just laughs good-naturedly every time at Seokmin's confused groans and shows him a way that makes sense to Seokmin's mind.

 

"Thank you," Seokmin whispers, when their impromptu teaching session is over. They're flopped on the floor now, sweat running from both of their faces, and Seungcheol is in the middle of laughing again. Seokmin didn't know Seungcheol laughed this much. He likes the sound of it, and despite his initial reservations about the boy himself, Seokmin finds himself joining in banter rather easily. His mom has always said people with nice laughs make the best friends, and Seungcheol seems to be the best there is. 

 

Who else would take the time to teach a fellow trainee — a competitor, really; no one ever knows who is going to debut, and Seokmin’s heard stories of olders trainees like Seungcheol being discarded in favor of fresher meat — moves that they really should've gotten down on their own? Who does that?

 

Seokmin frowns. Maybe there is a  _ but _ to this, an  _ I O U _ sort of favor that Seungcheol will call in at a later time. But when Seokmin turns to look at Seungcheol, his grin is still there, sheen across his forehead, a mischievous twinkle in his eye that Seokmin has never noticed before, Seokmin doesn't think Seungcheol is that kind of person. 

 

"It's dinnertime," Seungcheol says, getting up. He offers Seokmin his hand, but Seokmin shakes his head. His stomach is growling, but he needs to practice what he's just learned, or he knows that he is going to forget everything and waste the three hours they spent going over this piece.

 

"I'm just going to work on this a little more, I think," Seokmin says, even though his tired muscles scream otherwise. "You can go get dinner first, if you'd like. You've done enough for me already, hyung. Thank you, seriously. I don’t know how I could have done it without you."

 

Seungcheol, instead, sits down criss-cross applesauce.

 

"What are you doing?" Seokmin blurts out, before he can help it. His mouth moves before his brain does, and he slaps a hand to it before it can cause any more damage. The abject horror must show on his face, because Seungcheol bursts out into laughter, gummy smile fully on display. Seokmin just prays that Seungcheol thinks that it's because he is genuinely confused at Seungcheol's willingness to help, or because of Seokmin's pitiful dance skills, and not because Seokmin feels uncomfortable in the elder's presence.

 

"I'm watching you," Seungcheol says simply. "I've got your back, don't worry." He winks, and in that moment Seokmin feels like he is a part of something bigger than himself. "We’re brothers now. We’ve spent three hours in a small room sweating together, Seokmin, you can’t take that kind of bond back now.” Seokmin is too busy laughing to notice the way his heart begins to swell and expand and warm. This is only the beginning of a very long journey, one that is still beginning written. 

 

“You're going to ace this assignment. I promise. Okay?” Seungcheol sticks out a chubby pinky, and Seokmin curls his skinnier, knobbier one around it. Pinky promises are for kids, Seokmin wants to say, but he doesn’t, because there is something about this one that makes it seem more than a childish, frivolous promise. Seungcheol means what he intends, Seokmin thinks, and that makes him feel solid. Trustworthy. Dependable. Like home.

 

“Okay,” Seokmin breathes.

 

(Seokmin does. He aces it with flying colors, and afterwards, Seungcheol comes up to him and ruffles his hair. "See?" There it is again, that gummy smile. It's growing on him, way more than he thought it would. By association, its owner is, too. "I told you you were going to do it.")

 

> **_JEONGHAN._ **

 

Seokmin catches Jeonghan going out one night, pink scarf swaddled around his neck and about thirty thousand layers on. He shakes his head, mainly because it really isn't that cold, but Jeonghan has always had a weakness towards the weather, especially when it just starts to get chilly, and then again in the months of February to March, when the winter is most unforgiving.

 

“You look like a penguin,” Seokmin laughs. He is always laughing these days, it seems. They are in the middle of preparing for comeback, and the thought of once again being on stage (for carats!) seems to put him in a mood far beyond the reaches of the crushing exhaustion practicing until midnight brings. Nothing can soil his good spirits now, unless they try really really  _ really _ hard. Or unless they are Seungkwan. That brat’s been getting on his nerves lately. 

 

"I am a penguin, why thank you for recognizing, my lovely dongsaeng," Jeonghan says delightedly, and then proceeds to waddle around the hall, mimicking the behavior of the animal the best he can. Seokmin's resulting giggle bounces off the wall, until there's a harsh kick at the wall, an angry mutter, probably one of the members trying to get in shut eye while he still can.

 

_ Oops _ , Seokmin mouths. It is super quiet for a beat before Jeonghan and he burst into more hushed laughter.

 

"What are you doing?" Seokmin asks, eyes wide.

 

"Being a penguin," is Jeonghan's answer, but Seokmin frowns. There is something a little jagged to the edge, a little raw, like a piece of old fabric pulled too tight that the holes in it are showing. The smile that Jeonghan gives him is reminiscent of that, lips stretched thin in practiced greeting. It is not real, a baring of teeth rather than the genuine warmth that Seokmin sees when Jeonghan is living his good days, and that is what makes Seokmin worry.

 

" _ Ey _ ," he says, and pokes Jeonghan's side. "What's the problem, hyung?"

 

Jeonghan swivels his gaze to Seokmin's, and he's surprised to find them glistening. "Take a walk with me, my favorite dongsaeng?" He holds out his hand and he looks the saddest Seokmin's ever seen him, and well, Seokmin's always had a hard time saying no when he sees the people he loves in need.

 

"Of course!" Seokmin says. "Just let me get my coat, yeah?" He wonders if his smile is too bright, too wide, and dims it down, just a bit. If Jeonghan notices, he doesn't say a single word. The other boy is too deep in thought, hands bundled underneath all those layers, shoulders listless. Jeonghan looks too small standing like that, swallowed whole by clothing. Too fragile, too frail.

 

Seokmin rushes out of his dorm without waking up Joshua, barreling out of it so that fast that he nearly trips over his feet in his haste. It surprises another laugh out of Jeonghan; Seokmin, miraculously, doesn't make any noise after nearly falling, meaning that no one will wake up and murder him for being woken up, so he considers it a victory.

 

Seokmin takes Jeonghan's hand as they leave, because Jeonghan had offered it before, and because Seokmin absolutely hates it when his hyungs look this tired. He tries to squeeze all the warmth and love into the space their hands occupy. Seokmin is not the sharpest tool in the shed, and he knows it, he does, but he likes to think that he is smart about people. And Jeonghan needs a person tonight.

 

He swings their hands back and forth, singing bits and pieces of songs only he and his vast, nearly nine hundred song music library (stored on his new phone) know, chattering animatedly about all the sights and people passing their way.

 

"Do you think she likes romance dramas? She seems like that kind of person." A pause. " _ I'm  _ that kind of person."

 

"I bet he has an office job. Look at his tie! So fancy! And those eye-bags, ah, poor guy."

 

"Have you see this movie yet, hyung? It looks good. When the members have a day off, let's go and try to watch it."

 

Jeonghan is content to listen. He pulls his hand away only once, while they make their way out to the street, and only because he had demanded to know why Seokmin was trying to cut all circulation off in his fingers.

 

("I'll need this for the comeback, you fool," Jeonghan says grumpily, trying desperately to rub back some blood into his poor hand. His tone is very much fond though, so Seokmin just grins and takes the hair ruffle like a champ.)

 

Seokmin manages to sneak his hand back in, when Jeonghan is too busy watching the snow speckle the night sky. He is sure Jeonghan notices— Jeonghan's hands are always so cold— but the elder never makes any move to jerk away again. Instead, there is a faint squeeze, once, twice, and Seokmin knows that Jeonghan is grateful for his presence.

 

They make it past the Han River, listening to buskers croon tunes well into the dead of night. Seokmin wonders, if he had not lived this life, with shining idols and bright lights, if he would have been one of these souls. He thinks so. He likes to think that he would sing, in any universe, under any circumstances, in any situation.

 

Jeonghan finally speaks, when they're crossing the bridge. "Thank you."

 

The thanks is tossed into the wind, thrown into the night sky, flying far away and free. Seokmin thinks he can see Jeonghan's shoulders relax slightly, even under all those ridiculously thick pieces of clothing. Seokmin doesn't say anything, and just hums.

 

The thing about Jeonghan is, Seokmin's learned from experience, that he looks like and  _ is _ , essentially, a flower. You tend to him with warm looks and welcoming expressions and under your gentle care, he will bloom. Seokmin has been tending to Jeonghan ever since they left the dorms, with his endless babbling and the hand-holding; Seokmin does not realize it either, but his presence make a wonderful substitute for the sun.

 

"Preparing for comeback is always tough," Jeonghan says this like he is not expecting anyone to listen, and that is what hurts Seokmin the most. As idols, they are expected to save face. No one cares much if the burden on one's shoulders feels heavier than the weight of the sky, for they are all shouldering it too. "I fear that it's become too tough on me."

 

Jeonghan cracks a smile, though it feels painted on. "I feel old, Seokminnie."

 

Seokmin swings their hands together again, and tries to push all the love he has in his heart towards Jeonghan, to push all the strength and spirit years and years of training has given him, and on top of all that, just a bit more.  _ Please _ , he thinks,  _ I believe in you _ .    
  


He thinks back to the time he was training in that practice room, the ease with which Seungcheol had promised him that he would ace the assignment, the confidence that Seungcheol had in him, had transferred over to him. It is infinitely easier to believe in yourself when you have people around you that think the same thing. He tries to channel it now.

 

"I don't think you're old, Jeonghannie."

 

"Ah, thank you. It's nice to have you by my side, even when my body fails me," Jeonghan's voice is still teasing, but it comes out wrong, like a splintering of glass. Seokmin doesn't quite know how to fix these pieces, but he tries.

 

"If you're old," he says in his most convincing  _ ahjussi  _ voice, "then what am I?" He clutches at the lapels of Jeonghan's coat. "I'm far older than you think, Jeonghan. Don't be fooled by my handsome, youthful looks."

 

The laugh that explodes out of Jeonghan spirals towards the sky and makes it way among the stars. This time, it is not fake. It is real, very much real, and Seokmin's heart squeezes a little more. It is not perfect, but it is a start.

 

They talk a little more after that. Jeonghan's fears always do capitalize just a few weeks before comeback, and with each and every time they do it, they find a way to become more convincing and more real. Seokmin understands it. He gets them himself, only it is not as severe. He knows that  _ main vocal _ is more convincing than just  _ vocal unit member _ , and it has always been like that for Jeonghan from the beginning.

 

His heart is heavy because Jeonghan's heart is heavy; he does his best to alleviate the pain. He’s a fool if he believes he can erase it all, but Seokmin has always been brave enough to try.

 

“It's like spice tolerance, right?” he says, very seriously, and Jeonghan fails to reign in his resounding giggle. A victory cannon sounds in the distance, though it is only ever heard by Seokmin’s ears. “Once you get used to it, there's always a pepper that is stronger, that is more spicier than the others. And then when you get to it, there's no need to panic. You just need to adjust.”

 

Jeonghan smiles at this. "Yes, I think so too. Weird spice metaphors aside, I think I get what you mean.” It’s silent for a while on the bench that they share. He huffs, and ruffles Seokmin’s hair. “I’m adjusting. I'm doing okay." He laughs a little while after that. "You know, for my idiot, you sure are a smartie. You knew that your hyung wasn’t having a good day, huh?"

 

There is a part of him that preens at being recognized, but Seokmin has never been one for the spotlight. He’d rather help shine the lights somewhere else. Because then people would get to see the beauty that lies all around him and find wonder in them too. 

 

"Hey," Seokmin says instead, scrunching up his nose. "I just gave you very valid life advice, I think I should get the privilege of not being called idiot today."

 

"Hm," Jeonghan hums. He likes to pretend that he's going to contemplate a matter, but in reality, his mind is already made up about it. Seokmin knows this kind of hum very well. Too well, really. "Don't think so. Sorry, Seokminnie."

 

Seokmin does not mind though, content to continue on jesting if that means Jeonghan can envision himself getting out of the funk he is currently in. As they make their way back, hands intertwined, it is Jeonghan this time that's commenting on all the things that they pass by, singing his favorite tunes. Seokmin's heart takes a flying leap, hop, and a skip, all at once. 

 

He did good today.

 

> **_JISOO._ **

 

Everything Jisoo does, it is with grace. Seokmin is surprised at it sometimes, the way that he holds himself, with a quiet handsomeness and a face so serene Seokmin can only be half sure he knows what is running through it at times. There is always a small smile on his face, no matter how painful the practice or how harsh the joke, and if Jisoo is ever displeased, Seokmin never sees it. 

 

Seokmin wonders what it is like, to be that gentle. He himself has the tendency to run jagged at the corners, an open book for the entire world to watch unfold. The other members like to joke that they always know what Seokmin is thinking, because, well, he always lets them know, mouth running and open wide, his whole body expressing. 

 

“It’s a good thing they put you in vocal unit then, isn’t it?” Jisoo hums one day, smiling at the cacophony that Seokmin brings with him each and every way he goes. Seokmin gives him a sheepish look, but Jisoo just laughs pleasantly and gestures for him to continue on his merry way. Everything about the other boy is soft, slow, measured; the very basis of his nature contrasts greatly with that of Seokmin’s, and yet, even then, their dynamic seems to work well. 

 

Lately, Seokmin has taken to curling up against Jisoo’s side at the end of the day, hands swirling themselves into the fabric of the elder boy’s clothes as he tells Jisoo about his day. Jisoo doesn’t talk much, but the feeling of his hands in Seokmin’s hair and the hums that he lets out occasionally alert Seokmin that he is listening.

 

Sometimes Jisoo will hum tunes with Seokmin, his lower register harmonizing smoothly with that of Seokmin’s higher one, or when Seokmin is feeling up to the challenge, they’ll sit, knees knocking together and heads leaning against one another, Jisoo teaching Seokmin English. Jisoo answers all of Seokmin’s questions patiently, and watches him sound out words, smiling when he gets them right and smiling even he butchers them. 

 

“Aren’t I annoying?” Seokmin asks, one day, before he can realize what comes out of his mouth. 

 

Jisoo tilts his head, bunny-toothed smile already coming out to play. “What do you mean?”

 

“Like,” Seokmin says, “aren’t you tired of me always asking you questions, or bugging you with about fifty different renditions of songs that I’m really into at the moment, while you’re supposed to be relaxing on the couch?”

 

Jisoo does not even hesitate for a split second before he answers. “No.” 

 

“Really?” Seokmin is incredulous. Even he can feel himself grating on other members’ nerves sometimes. He really is a bit too much. 

 

Jisoo laughs. “ _ Really _ , really.” He continues run his hands through Seokmin’s hair, playing with the lobes of Seokmin’s ears. The admission that follows is soft, but Seokmin can hear it very loud and clear. “I like hanging out with you too much to mind the other things.”

 

“Wow,” Seokmin says, half drunk on the euphoric feeling of not being a bother and half reveling in the fact that Jisoo likes hanging out with him, “You  _ really _ are Seventeen’s gentleman.”

 

He feels rather than sees Jisoo crinkles his nose at this, a huff coming out of his nostrils, from where they’re buried in Seokmin’s hair. 

 

“What?” Seokmin’s mood falls flat nearly instantaneously. “Did I say something wrong?”

 

“No,” Jisoo says, but his tone is weirdly pitched, and that sets Seokmin’s mind tumbling in a panic, because he most definitely  _ did _ say something wrong, and he ruined the moment, and oh  _ god _ —

 

“I just don’t like that nickname.” Jisoo’s voice brings him back to reality. There’s an awkward laugh that tumbles out of him then. “Being gentle is all good until you end up last for nearly everything, just because you were nice enough to let everyone else pass you first.”

 

Seokmin gets up and swirls around to face Jisoo, because this is the kind of conversation you have face to face, when the matter includes something that involves shaking the entire foundation of someone’s beliefs. 

 

“There is strength in being kind.” Seokmin insists, grabbing at Jisoo’s hands. “There’s a kind of bravery in it, if you think about it hard enough.”

 

Jisoo opens his mouth like he intends to disagree, except Seokmin doesn’t let him — he cannot let him, for all that Jisoo has done, even if he thinks otherwise — and continues to plow through. 

 

“No, really! It’s true. And I’m not just saying it because it’s just the cliched sort of thing to say at a time like this, but because when I see you, I see the person I would like to be.” Jisoo looks surprised at this, the pink of his lips forming a soft  _ oh! _ in surprise. Seokmin smiles encouragingly, and nods. “It’s true, you know. You’re always so well-mannered and pleasant, even when I tease you, or when you let me order before you, so that I can get my meal first, because you could hear my tummy growl about fifteen minutes back.”

 

He grins. “So I guess what I’m saying is, you’re really  _ really _ cool, hyung. Being gentle is a good thing.” At this, he sheepishly grabs the back of his neck. “I wish I could be a bit more tactful like you, sometimes.”

 

Jisoo takes a moment to take it all in, and Seokmin worries at his lip again, mind furiously wondering if what he said was overstepping a boundary he didn’t quite know was there. 

 

“So what I’m hearing is,” Jisoo says, mouth curling upwards in a broad grin, “you think I’m cool?”

 

“Shut up,” Seokmin groans, and shoves him over. “How come none of the cameras catch this side of you, seriously? Joshua Hong, you big piece of —”

 

“No,” Jisoo interrupts softly, eyes crinkling, “I get it. I get what you mean.” He relaxes slightly, leaning back into the plush of the couch. “Thank you, Seokmin.”

 

“No problem,” Seokmin grins, and leaps back into Jisoo’s arms, shuffling back so he’s leaning back on the other’s chest snugly. “It was the kind of thing you needed to know.”

  
  


> **_JUNHUI._ **

 

Seokmin is watching Junhui watch himself in the mirror. The older boy is making funny faces at himself, laughing at the way his expression changes in the reflection every so often. According to the clock, and assuming Seokmin can tell time correctly, Junhui has been at this for a good ten to fifteen minutes.

 

“You’re so cool,” Seokmin blurts out without meaning to. The tone is honest, earnest, though, so nothing bad can happen of it. Not with Junhui, anyway. Seokmin knows that the other is so easy going that it is hard to find something that truly upsets him. He just cringes at the way he cannot ever seem to control his mouth, and watches Mirror-Junhui stop what he’s doing (currently trying to touch the tip of his nose with his tongue) and turn away to face Seokmin. Which means the real Junhui is looking at Seokmin.

 

“Can you say that again?” Junhui is playful incarnate, and this time is no different. He leans forward on the sofa, resting his arms against the back of it, smile curling upwards. His blond hair is immaculate, styled well by the noonas — with Junhui leading the visual charge, the comma hairstyle is sure to be coming back soon — and his eyeshadow makes him seem more sharp, more cunning. More handsome.

 

But Junhui is Junhui, and he does not realize the scene he presents (or maybe he does, and he is good at pretending), so he just makes a face at Seokmin and repeats his question.

 

“No,” Seokmin says, half out of stubbornness, and half out of embarrassment. There’s a flush on his cheeks, but that is the least of his worries. For this, he can blame that on the hot heat and dreadful humidity of the summer, but he would die before admitting that he called Junhui cool. To his face.

 

“No,” Junhui rests his head on his chin lazily, smirking. “I most definitely heard something.”

 

“You did not.”

 

“I think I did.” Junhui grins, and slides over the back of the couch to sit, knees sprawling and wide, facing Seokmin. “You think I’m cool?” If anything, Junhui’s smile seems to grow wider, so big that it nearly could be described as shit-eating. Seokmin resists the urge to toss a pillow at him. He does not, mainly because he dug himself this grave in the first place, so he can’t even blame Junhui for the pure mortification that is eating him alive right now.

 

He thinks now would be a good time to lie in this grave he created for himself.

 

“Okay, fine,” Seokmin relents, affixing Junhui with a glare when he begins to giggle. “Don’t laugh!”

 

“I’m not laughing at you!” Junhui puts his hands up in surrender. “Promise.” The giggles do not stop though, and Seokmin sits there feeling very much like the idiot Jeonghan says he is sometimes.

 

“You said you aren’t laughing at me,” Seokmin frowns, five minutes later. Junhui has not stopped, and Seokmin has half a mind to forcibly stop him by shaking him silly by the shoulders, but he thinks that he should let the stylist noonas should beat some sense into Junhui should he dare ruin their hard work today by —  _ laughing so hard tears come out _ ?

 

Seokmin is incredulous. He doesn't think it that funny, which is a high indicator of something's funny-ness, mainly because Seokmin nearly finds joy in anything and everything. He pouts, and waits for Junhui to notice him.

 

“I wasn’t!” Junhui finally ceases, dabbing at his eyes gently with a handkerchief. “I just— no one’s told me that in a long time.”

 

“But you are!” Seokmin gasps. “You’re the center for our dance this time, and netizens all wrote about you being the number one visual in Korea, and you’re not even Korean.” He turns serious. “Junhui-hyung, there are blogs dedicated solely to the mole on your lip.”

 

Junhui touches the mole with a soft, starstruck smile. “Really?”

 

Seokmin nods. “Really.”

 

It is quiet for a moment after that, heavy with the somber mood Seokmin had brought with him, but then Junhui shakes himself visibly, eyes sharp and determined when he focuses back onto Seokmin. He tries not to shrink into the couch, forgetting exactly what it felt like to be under scrutiny by Junhui.

 

The other boy is all sharp angles and intensely intimidating good looks, all rolled into one, whereas Seokmin is just … Seokmin. Dokyeom, on a good day, if he is lucky.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Junhui says, and taps Seokmin on the nose before he can react.

 

“What?” Seokmin touches his nose, in a daze. Junhui has that effect on people.

 

Junhui shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.” He looks his age now, chin proud and tall, and with no hint of the fact that he was doing rather childish antics just two minutes prior. He looks wise, and he looks serene. Seokmin marvels at the way he can easily flip the switch. Seokmin feels one dimensional sometimes, like he’s only ever going to be one thing and one thing to anyone that lays eyes on him, but Junhui? Junhui has so many sides to him, very much like the diamonds Seventeen and carats are compared to.

 

Seokmin feels confused, and he probably looks it too, because Junhui smiles that his smile again and says, “It doesn’t! Matter, I mean, that they think I’m cool.”

 

Junhui lowers his voice, and leans forward, like what he is about to say is confidential. Seokmin copies him, out of habit. Junhui tends to make a game out of everything, and one only really understands what’s going on when they decide to play along with it.

 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Junhui asks. There’s a sparkle in his eyes, a secretive slip of his smile, a furtive glance. Something in Seokmin prompts him to nod yes.

 

Junhui looks mighty pleased with himself when he says, “It only matters if  _ I  _ think I’m cool.”

 

Seokmin snorts. It sounds like something out of one of the books his teacher used to give to him when they were doing an anti-bullying unit at school. When he was still in school, before he graduated the confines of his classroom and never looked back. “What?”

 

Junhui looks at him, eyes wide. “It’s true, you know.”

 

“I don’t think so.” Seokmin laughs. “Having that many people tell you that you’re handsome helps a lot.”

 

Junhui cracks open one eye to stare at Seokmin. “Has no one ever told you you’re handsome?” Seokmin stammers over his words. None ever come out, but it’s nice to know his tongue exists. He forgets how blunt Junhui can be, too.

 

“Well,” Seokmin starts, “they have.”

 

The problem is, people tell him things all the time, things like  _ your voice is so good, Dokyeomie _ , and  _ you are the handsomest boy I have ever seen _ , but they come from people like his parents, and the other members, people who are supposed to bring him up, never drag him down, so —

 

“You don’t believe them,” Junhui interrupts.

 

Seokmin stays mute, but after a minute, he nods imperceptibly. Junhui stares at him intensely for a second, then makes a humming sound.

 

“Well then,” he says. “I know how to fix that.” He sidles up really close to Seokmin then, startling him at the sudden close proximity, and pats the center of his chest, right where Seokmin’s heart is.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I’m giving you a bit of my confidence, silly,” Junhui says simply, like Seokmin needs to pick up the pace and roll with the program. Seokmin splutters, but Junhui leans in even closer then, face to face with Seokmin and grabs him by the shoulders before he can let out another word.

 

"I'll tell you a secret, okay?" Junhui does not lower his voice this time, but wiggles his shoulder and squares himself so that he and Seokmin are facing each other on the couch. Seokmin shuffles around and mirrors the other boy. There's a pink butterfly clip in his hair still, and it looks kind of funny like that, nestled on his very blonde head. "This time, it's legit though, so you can't tell anyone what I'm about to say." Junhui narrows his eyes. "Or I might have to kill you."

 

"Promise," Seokmin says very soberly, despite the way his mouth is itching to curl upwards into a smile.

 

Junhui pulls their hands together, and begins to run his thumbs over Seokmin's knuckles. "My confidence is a bluff, sometimes. I'm actually not very cool when you think about it."

 

"But you are!" Seokmin protests. "You  _ ooze _ coolness."

 

"No, Seokmin," Junhui smiles, but this time it is a little bit softer, a little less daring. "No, I don't. It's all a trick, you know."

 

Seokmin is utterly confused, and Junhui can tell.

 

"Okay," Junhui fidgets a bit on the couch to make himself more comfortable. "Think about it like this: sometimes you feel a little bit too big for your body, right? Like, a huge walking sore." He laughs at this, probably conjuring the image up in his mind while making the analogy. "You feel gross, and you feel like you stick out like a sore thumb."

 

Seokmin nods, feeling the swirl in his stomach at Junhui's words, uneasy at how much they nail the way he feels right on the head. He has been feeling the pressure a lot more often than not lately, and the weight on his chest makes it difficult to breath sometimes. Digging through his already bare drawers for a confidence that he is supposed to have but is no longer there— it becomes tiring, sometimes.

 

"Well," Junhui continues, "Everyone feels like that, you know. Uncertain, lost in their own heads."

 

Junhui reaches over to tap on Seokmin's heart again, lightly, and then goes on to touch Seokmin's head. 

 

"But, when you let yourself out of here, you realize that your heart is where it matters most. When you are true to yourself, when you are comfortable with who you are, inside and out, your heart becomes happier, and I think that's what people see when they see cool people. They envy you because they see your happy heart, and they want to be free too."

 

Junhui blinks once, straightens up and shakes his entire body, as if being that serious for too long takes a toll on his very being. He grins then, crooked tooth winking at Seokmin. "Do you understand? You see me, as I am. Just a trick of the light, Seokmin, nothing more."

 

"Yeah," Seokmin exhales on a shaky breath. "I think so."

 

And he does. In his own roundabout way, Junhui has showed him where to find a quiet sort of confidence, the sort that builds slowly and surely and then overwhelms in all of its entirety when it stands tall, towering in the skies. Junhui cannot do all the hard work for him, but it is a beginning, a way to start again. Something in Seokmin’s chest flutters and begins to heal.

 

“Be you, okay?” Junhui sort of winks at him, except he cannot wink, and so both his eyelids flutter open and shut really quick. “Life is not very fun if you live it otherwise.” He flashes Seokmin two thumbs up. "You're cool, Seokmin. As you are."

 

“Will do.” Seokmin hides a laugh behind his hands. “You’re funny, hyung.”

 

Junhui grins, and pretends to act nonchalant as he leans back into the cushions. Suddenly they are just two teenage boys, lounging on a couch, avoiding the dreadful heat of summer. 

 

“Thank you. I was born this way. It’s hard being this good-looking with a dazzling personality like mine.” Junhui swoops an arm over his forehead, faking a swoon. “I’m perfect, really.”

 

(In the middle of recording, Seokmin shoots Junhui a funky grin, and mouths  _ Your heart is so cool  _ when they show the clips of Junhui as center, giving his trademark smirk. Junhui laughs, loud and free, and he can’t stop laughing either, until they dim down the lights and some producer barks out orders, properly chastising the fool. Seokmin sneaks him a high-five when he can.)

  
  


> **_SOONYOUNG._ **

 

Seokmin has his bad days. Everyone does, of course, but when Seokmin has them, he will do everything in his power to denounce and deny it fervently until everyone leaves him alone; it’s funny, he thinks, in retrospect, that despite however vocal he is, he hates talking about his feelings. Once he is left alone, he’ll cry alone in his room until every last bit of his frustrations are let out. 

 

It is not healthy. Objectively, he knows that. The mountain of used tissues slowly growing in the corner of his room knows that. But it is a method that has served him well thus far, and so because of that, he sees no reason why not to continue using it.

 

It is why he has holed himself in the dorm for the night, sure that he’ll have it nearly all to himself, since Jisoo is busy grabbing dinner with Jeonghan and Junhui at the moment. He sits on the floor, because it is rather disgusting to sleep on bedsheets full of snot (he’s learned this the hard way, unfortunately), and because that’s really as far as he got before breaking down almost entirely.

 

A door creaks open, and the jagged sound it makes in the silence nearly deafens Seokmin. He turns to look at the intruder, eyes red and puffy, and immediately ducks his head down to avoid further embarrassment. It’s Soonyoung.

 

“Seokmin,” Soonyoung says, surprised. “Are you crying?”

 

Seokmin wipes his nose furiously. “No,” he mumbles into his knees, “I’m just sweating out of my eyes.”

 

“Come here,” Soonyoung climbs onto Seokmin’s bed, and pats the space next to him. “Sit down. Tell me what’s wrong.”

 

“That’s my bed,” Seokmin points out instead. “Don’t you think you should be asking  _ me _ if you can sit down there first?”

 

Soonyoung shrugs, zero shame hidden in the creases of his smile. “Between the thirteen of us? Nothing is truly  _ just _ one person’s, anymore.”

 

And it is true. Seokmin cannot even count anymore, the times Seungcheol has walked around with  _ his _ underwear on — Seokmin’s messy scrawl is unmistakable, as is the  **_D.K._ ** written in sharpie across the tag — nor the times Seungkwan has complained about Mingyu ‘borrowing’ his hand cream, only to use up the very last bits of it. They have been through too much, been together too long, to complain about whose is who’s or what belongs where. They just exist in the same space; anything and everything is everyone’s, whether you want it to be or not.

 

“Bad day?” Soonyoung asks, when Seokmin joins him on the bed. 

 

“Something like that,” Seokmin affirms, eyes still unable to meet Soonyoung’s. He hates it when other people see him cry, especially when it’s the other members. He knows that they have been through so much together, but they have debuted now. Most of the hardship is over by now, or at least, it is supposed to be. If he cannot be happy, cannot keep the rest of them, — which is what a happy virus is supposed to  _ do _ — then what other purpose can he serve? 

 

Besides singing, Seokmin knows he has little else he can contribute; his lyrics always end up sounding childish, and they never match the mood that Jihoon sets, and his skills producing music is limited to the ten second samples he messes around on Garageband with. He is not the most interesting member, nor the most well-read, and so he always ends up feeling a little bit sorry for himself and a little bit like a thirteen wheel — just like as of right now.

 

“ _ Ey _ ,” Soonyoung pokes him in the side. “What’s that supposed to mean? How can your super cool, super amazing hyung do to help you feel better?”

 

Seokmin laughs even though he does not intend to, which causes a handful of snot to burst out his nose. 

 

“Don’t look at me,” Seokmin wails, hands hurrying to cover the blast zone. “Can you please forget you ever saw this? Don’t tell Chan, he’ll have a field day with this one.”

 

“No one is telling one anything,” Soonyoung says soothingly, and backs away to where the tissue box is, stored in a cubby on Seokmin’s shelf. “Let’s start with getting you some tissues first,” Soonyoung pulls himself up onto the desk, so that he can get a better look at all the boxes Seokmin has jammed in there. “Holy  _ shit _ , these are a lot of tissues.” 

 

He looks at Seokmin with an incredulous face. “Do you even  _ use _ all of these?”

 

Seokmin hesitates for a second before he nods. “I cry a lot, so yeah.”

 

Soonyoung pulls a frown along with a box down with him as he pads back over to Seokmin. “Ah, Seokmin, that’s not good. You have to let us know when our happy virus isn’t feeling 100%. How else are you going to get better?” He hands the newly acquired tissue box to Seokmin, who graciously takes them and begins wiping at his face desperately. 

 

The way that Soonyoung says all of this is soft and caring. Seokmin can almost bring himself to believe it, Soonyoung’s words, but the terrible thing is that he doesn’t, even though he wishes desperately he could, and that realization brings another set of tears to Seokmin’s eyes and a thick lump in his throat. He does not trust himself to speak, but he offers a meek, “Thank you,” and continues to sniffle, dabbing at the tears that still sneak out.

 

“Aigoo,” Soonyoung says, smiling softly as he reaches to wipe a stray tear that Seokmin has missed. “Look at you.”

 

“I’m a mess,” Seokmin mumbles forlornly. “I know.”

 

Soonyoung shakes his head. “You’re not a mess. You just take too much in on your shoulders sometimes, dummy.” He flicks Seokmin softly on the forehead, not too hard that it’ll leave a mark, but tough enough that it will sting. 

 

“Ow,” Seokmin opens one puffy eye to glare at Soonyoung. “What did you do that for? Aren’t I suffering enough?”

 

Soonyoung just smiles, his cheeks shining as his eyes crease joyfully. “You have to accept the love you’re given, Seokmin.” He pats Seokmin once, twice, on the cheek. “All of it. Even if it doesn’t feel like love, even if it feels like a flick on the forehead.” At this, Soonyoung’s eyes twinkle, and he moves to do it again, which makes Seokmin scoot back and stare at Soonyoung’s approaching index finger in fear. (Thankfully, the other boy pulls back, mouthing  _ I was only kidding _ , and pouts in feigned hurt.)

 

“Even if you don’t feel like you’re worthy of it,” Soonyoung locks eyes with Seokmin at this as he moves to get up, and makes a show of prancing around the room in an effort to give Seokmin a rousing speech. Seokmin laughs because he cannot help it. Soonyoung was always one for a stage, for theatrics.

 

“People won’t say things they don’t mean. They can see what you are Seokmin, and what you do. They’re grateful to you, and they want to help you, when they see the pain you go through. All you have to do is let them in.” At this, Soonyoung leans forward and taps his knuckles on Seokmin’s skull. “Did you get that?”

 

Seokmin is surly, still very much caught up in his woes, but he appreciates what Soonyoung is trying to tell him. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah, I do.”

 

“Okay, now I expect you to run and tell someone the moment things like this happen again.” Soonyoung lifts up a finger as Seokmin begins to protest. “It doesn’t have to be me. Just promise that you’ll let  _ someone _ know, alright? It’s better to let these kinds of things out than in.”

 

Seokmin nods meekly, and Soonyoung sighs happily, clapping his hands together. “Good. Now I’ll leave you to wallow in your snot and your tears this one last time. But don’t you ever let me catch you like this again, okay?” Soonyoung’s gaze turns affectionate, warm, soft, and Seokmin thaws a little under it. “It’s no fun when our Seokminnie is hurting.”

 

“I promise,” Seokmin says, voice hoarse. 

 

As he closes the door behind him, Soonyoung smirks wickedly, the curve of his cheek smooth and round. “Don’t worry, this can be our little secret, okay? I’ll tell Josh you’re wickedly sick and that he shouldn’t come in the room tonight.”

 

“Thank you,” Seokmin says once again. It is not really enough, but it serves its purpose well, and by the beaming flash of teeth Seokmin gets in his direction lets him know that Soonyoung thinks it fine.

 

“Don’t mention it.” The older boy shoots him a finger gun. “It’s what any of us would do for you, Seokmin. Don’t you ever forget that. We’re always going to be here for you.” Soonyoung wiggles his pinky finger at him, ring glinting in the light. “We kind of have to, anyways. Now, go get some sleep.”

 

Seokmin’s answering smile is watery, but genuine. “Okay. I’ll try.”

 

“Good. Trying’s a start, you know.”

  
  


> **_WONWOO._ **

 

“I worry about you, you know,” Wonwoo says one day, when they are in the middle of practicing for concert. The way he says it is so nonchalant, like something one would say when commenting on something as mundane as the weather, or wondering if one of the members had eaten breakfast yet.

 

Seokmin tilts his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

 

Wonwoo just smiles. "You're going to get scammed one day, Seokmin."

 

Seokmin gasps, affronted. "I will  _ not _ . Have some more faith in me, why don't you?"

 

Wonwoo lifts an eyebrow, unamused. "What about the time I told you we couldn't wear shoes onto the plane, and you nearly stepped on barefoot until you realized everyone else was wearing them but you?"

 

"Or in Japan, when you thought the piranhas were the kind that nibbled the dead skin off your dirty feet, and were about to stick your fingers in," Chan calls from across the room, twisting off the cap of a water bottle and chugging it down. Wonwoo lifts up his hand and Chan completes the air high-five, grinning shamelessly. Seokmin's ears burn. Since when was Chan a part of the conversation? Were they really talking this loud? Was this really a one-sided debate?

 

Seungkwan grins as he passes by, sticking his nose into a conversation he doesn't belong in. "Or in America, when we convinced you it was a custom to shake their hands excessively as a sign of gratitude."

 

“See?” Wonwoo grins. "I’m not the only one who thinks so.” He tells Seungkwan, “I remember that. He was so embarrassed for days after."

 

"I think I scarred that poor barista for life," Seokmin groans into the crook of his elbow. He lifts his head up after he realizes what Seungkwan has contributed to the conversation, and narrows his eyes at the blonde, swatting at Seungkwan's legs. Seungkwan's crazy laughter spilling into the air as he successfully dodges Seokmin's attempts to maul him. " _ Hey _ , you brat, whose side are you on? Main vocals have to stick together, not toss each other to the wolves."

 

Seungkwan's only reply is,"Wonwoo-hyung loves me!", followed by another cackle.

 

"Fine," Seokmin makes a  _ hmph! _ sound at this, and crosses his arms huffily as he turns back to face Wonwoo. "I am very suggestible. I will admit to that." 

 

Wonwoo's low amused chuckles fill up the air, and Seokmin cannot do anything but join in after, even if it is at his expense. He will be the first to say that. Seokmin just likes to believe in the best of people, and in the purest of intentions, though he knows that realistically, the world has never been quite that clean.

 

"You're going to get scammed one day." Wonwoo repeats again, so wholehearted in his belief that Seokmin wants to coo at the sweetness of his tone. Except he remembers the teasing very clearly and straightens, frowning at Wonwoo.  

 

“Hey, then why is it okay when you do it?” Seokmin is aware that he is whining. He just doesn’t care at this point.

 

Wonwoo smiles again. He has been doing that a lot lately— sneaking giggles into oversized sleeves and hiding pearly whites from sight, a sort of innocent playfulness that wasn’t there before — and something about it makes Seokmin’s heart twist in his chest. It is a good look on him, happiness.

 

“If I don’t trick you first, then how else are you going to learn?” He says it so convincingly Seokmin nearly falls for it. _Jeon_ _Wonwoo_ , Seokmin thinks, _maybe in another life you were meant to be an actor_. The only thing that prevents him from wholeheartedly believing Wonwoo otherwise is the mischievous chuckle that escapes the other’s lips.

 

“I have to do it first so you can recognize all the signs. As your hyung, I have this duty to you.” Wonwoo sticks his chin up, so he can appear more mature, more knowledgeable. His wire-rimmed glasses glint under the fluorescent lights, and the image is very much convincing, save for the cat-who-got-the-cream smile curling around his lips.

 

Seokmin gently shoves Wonwoo over, but there is too much love in it for it to actually hurt. “Jerk.”

 

"I'm just looking out for you," Wonwoo huffs out a laugh. "You need people to look out for you too, you know. Your heart gets way too big for your chest, you baby." Wonwoo has a way of being serious at the most inconvenient of times, though Seokmin admires the way he can always find the words to speak in every moment. There's something that rings honest and true in the sentence, even though they were joking around just earlier, a solemnity that lets Seokmin know that Wonwoo means what he says.

 

"Thank you," Seokmin oddly choked up.

 

Wonwoo peers at him again, through his glasses, and ruffles Seokmin's hair warmly. His gaze has always been very perceptive, and it is probably one of the things Seokmin likes best about Wonwoo. You never have to say much with him. He just knows.

 

"It's okay to cry."

 

"I know," Seokmin says, voice wobbly, eyes crinkling into a smile at the fondness that rises up in his heart. "But I shouldn't litter good memories with tears."

 

Wonwoo leans his head on Seokmin's shoulders, and lets out a soft sigh. "Tears don't always have to be a bad thing. You just have a lot of them, Seokmin. It’s okay to let them out sometime, alright?”

 

(“ _ Ey, _ ” Seokmin sniffles, about five minutes later. Wonwoo’s head still lies on his shoulder. “How did we get from you worrying about me getting scammed to this cry-fest?” He feels Wonwoo’s laugh more than he hears it, muffled into the thick wool of his shirt.

 

“Beats me, you softie.” Wonwoo teases, as they call break. He offers Seokmin his hand, which he takes, and heaves him up with a grunt. “C’mon, let’s go do this thing, yeah?”)

  
  


> **_JIHOON._ **

 

Jihoon’s studio is very much like Seokmin’s second home. He spends most night here if he is not in the practice room, running trills and vocals until his throat feels burnt raw; he sips on warm tea or water and then does it all over again.

 

It is probably because the walls are soundproof. Sometimes he screams rather than sings. No one would ever know, unless they went down to check. His throat burns all the same.

 

“Hello,” Jihoon says, mildly interested. Anything he does nowadays is slow, measured, carefully gauged, and muted, as if through a glass screen. Seokmin wonders where the bright Jihoon has gone, the one who smiled carefree, under the summer sun. Maybe it is still there, Seokmin thinks, watching the way Jihoon curls his lips into a soft smile after looking down at something on his phone, just carefully wrapped under layers and layers of who he is now.

 

“Oh,” Seokmin says. “Hello.”

 

Jihoon shuffles sleepily into the room, scratching absentmindedly at his stomach. His hair is blonde again, and judging by the amount of product in his hair, dried out and dying.

 

“Do you want something to drink? Coffee, or something?”

 

“No,” Seokmin smiles at the gesture, and holds up his own tumbler in response. “I’ve got my own tea, thanks. Coffee just makes me jittery anyways. Not the smartest thing to have before bed.”

 

"Ah," Jihoon mumbles into his sleeves. It falls into awkward disquiet after that, a sort of silence that gnaws at the pit of Seokmin's stomach and sends his mind into overdrive. He has always had trouble dealing with empty nothingness, and now is no different. His chest yearns to let a roar out, his mouth to hum an empty tune, to do  _ something _ , to fill up the vacant space.

 

But this is how Jihoon enjoys his time, so is there they sit, silent, Seokmin scuffing his shoes in earnest attempt to respect the older boy's tastes, and Jihoon painfully oblivious to everything around him.

 

"What are you doing up so late?" Jihoon's voice is gruff but not unkind. Seokmin thinks that this is the biggest misleading point about his unit leader. Jihoon is Busan bred and born, but his heart bleeds true; it is the thing that softens everything else about him.

 

"I couldn't sleep," Seokmin makes sure to leave a gentle laugh, so Jihoon will not have to use the precious space he has in his brain worrying about Seokmin. He needs his genius for other things, like producing songs for their comeback. "So I ended up here. Might as well, so I don't wake the others."

 

"Wait a minute." He narrows his eyes. "What are  _ you _ doing here?"   
  


Jihoon tilts his head to the side, and lets out a laugh. "You're much smarter than you look, Seokmin."

 

"Thanks?"

 

"You're welcome." Jihoon's lips are curled up into a sly smile. He sits down in his chair and faces the switchboard, and Seokmin does not miss the way his shoulders tense up a bit.

 

"Jihoon." Seokmin says seriously.

 

Jihoon cocks his head to the side and fidgets with something on the switchboard. He is very determinedly not looking at Seokmin, and Seokmin is very much taking notice.

 

"Jihoon," Seokmin says again.

 

"Seokmin." Jihoon makes a show of reaching for his lyric book, a grey monstrosity that is bursting at the seams, spidery writing scrawling across the cover and a majority of pages ink-blotted and crossed out. When he grabs it, it usually means he has an idea, and it is a sign for the other members to leaving him alone. It is his coping mechanism, Seokmin knows, and he frowns at the way Jihoon is not answering his question. He never was good with his feelings.

 

"You shouldn't have to face this burden alone," Seokmin whispers into the spaces of the studio. Down here, especially in the midnight hour, the silence becomes deafening. Sometimes, it feels like being trapped in a dream — not quite here nor there, suspended in a universe that hasn’t quite existed yet. 

 

_ If I make a sound _ , Seokmin thinks sometimes, sitting down on the hardwood floor, back against a speaker, when the days feel bleak even to him,  _ will anyone even be able to hear it?  _ He cannot imagine how it feels to Jihoon sometimes. The older boy is locked in here for days on end, sometimes, when the inspiration fails to hit and when the company is hungry for yet another composition, another song to come back to, another era to practice until their feet turn red and angry and rubbed raw, shoulders heavy with exhaustion.

 

Jihoon’s shoulders have always been the heaviest of them all. 

 

He lets out another laugh, but this time it is a bit lopsided, sad. Seokmin’s heart lurches at the pitch. "This one was always mine to have," Jihoon says simply, like he cannot be persuaded to believe otherwise. 

 

Seokmin licks his lips, throat suddenly stuck with a million things to say and nowhere near figuring out how to say them. He settles for shaking his head no, watching the way Jihoon fiddles with the buttons before him, the way his fingers nimbly put together notes Seokmin could only dream of. Jihoon has a way of talking to music; sometimes melodies slip from his mind before he even realizes the genius it could be, and there it goes, forever immortalized in little his grey notebook. Sometimes, these bits and pieces of songs even make their way on stage.

 

"Do you fear it?" Jihoon whispers very quietly. Seokmin has to strain his ears to hear it, over the humming of machines. He has to look very carefully at Jihoon’s lips to even realize he is speaking in the first place. "Not being able to sing again, not being able to perform, not having anything to come back with?"

 

Seokmin's answer is truthful when he says, "No. Not when I have you guys with me."

 

It is quiet for a while, and Seokmin fears he has said something wrong, but then Jihoon turns to him, with tears in his eyes, and says, "Thank you."

 

"What for?" Seokmin asks, genuinely surprised.

 

Jihoon just claps a hand on his back and smiles. "For just...  being you." He waggles a finger warningly at Seokmin. "Don't ever change, you hear me?"

 

"What does that even mean?" Seokmin laughs, as Jihoon scrunches his nose and gets out of his chair, attempting to push him out of the studio.

 

"It means," Jihoon smiles, laughs bright and free —  _ ah _ , Seokmin thinks,  _ there he is _ — "that I think you just helped me with our next comeback."

 

"Seriously?" Seokmin asks.

 

"Seriously," Jihoon nods. Before he closes the door on Seokmin, not unkindly, he reminds him to get some sleep.  _ We need our main vocal at his best now, don't we?  _ Seokmin just shakes his head, and reminds Jihoon not to stay up too late either. Even geniuses need their beauty sleep.

 

Jihoon just smiles impishly again, and gestures to his coffee. “I think I’ll be okay,” he promises, already swiveling back to face his computer, head bent and furiously scribbling. Seokmin shakes his head at a closed door fondly and grins. His heart eases just a bit. They’ll be okay. __   
  


 

> **_MINGYU._ **
> 
>  

Mingyu plops down on the couch, glasses still on the back of his head, with a heavy sigh. Seokmin’s head pops up from the book that Minghao lent him to read. He is having trouble making it past the first few pages; Mingyu provides him the perfect distraction and excuse to ditch the book for a friendly face.

 

“Seventeen’s Mingyu!” Seokmin wiggles his fingers in a poor mockery of jazz hands. “What brings you here in your free time?” He pauses, pulling a classic thinker pose. “What did I do to deserve your presence?”

 

“Shut up,” Mingyu slams a pillow into Seokmin’s face, rather cross. Seokmin gets a mouthful of warm leather for his trouble. His reaction time has always been poor.

 

“ _ Yeouch _ ,” Seokmin winces, rubbing at his nose. “Someone’s a bit touchy today.”

 

Mingyu heaves another sigh, and scrubs his face over with a huge palm. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

 

Seokmin carefully bookmarks the page with a slip of paper —  Minghao would destroy him if he earmarked his beloved copy — and lifts his hands in surrender. “Didn’t ask.” It seems like this is the kind of conversation that requires full attention from both parties, so Seokmin prepares for it to the best of his ability.

 

Mingyu folds his glasses carefully and places them on the coffee table, and Seokmin pats the space next to him, Mingyu collapsing into it almost immediately, pillowing himself on Seokmin's thighs. They never have to use many words anymore; after years and years of living together, of breathing in each other's spaces, one starts to understand the other's habits. You become part of a whole after a while, instead of a single entity.

 

“I get tired sometimes,” Mingyu speaks into the stitches of his clothing, more of a mumble, a whisper lost in the air, than a solid sentence. “Sometimes I don’t want to be Seventeen’s Mingyu. Sometimes I just want to be Kim Mingyu.”

 

"You can be both," Seokmin tries, but the words get stuck on the way out. Both of them know that this is a fool's mindset. They are not the same boys they were three years ago, fresh out of debut, starry eyed and naive. There is a fine line between the version one shows on camera and the version of themselves they have to themselves, at home.

 

(Sometimes, it feels like nothing is private anymore. The line gets blurry, too, to the point where everyone has a little trouble finding their way back home.)

 

Mingyu lifts his head to look at him with the gauntest of gazes. Someone so young should not have to ever look this way, soul heavy and bone tired, exhaustion drilled into every bit of his features. Seokmin's hands curl into fists before he can help it, though he is not exactly sure why. It's not like he can fight the world for being as cruel as it is; the best they all can do is just roll with the punches.

 

"I'm sorry," Seokmin huffs out a laugh, even though there is nothing remotely funny about the situation. The world swallows up hearts. That's just what it does. It spits them back out charred and burnt and broken, and then continues on its merry way, spinning round and around again. Kim Mingyu is not the first casualty, and most definitely will not be the last. "That was insensitive of me."

 

Mingyu laughs into a snort before he can help it. "Yeah, it was." Seokmin smiles because Mingyu is smiling, even though it is hesitant and still dripping with sadness.

 

He flicks the other boy gently on the ear. "Hey, I'm the slow one, remember? I can afford to act this way."

 

It turns somber again, and Seokmin's heart aches once more for Mingyu. Being Seventeen's visual is hard work on a good day; to always be in the spotlight, stuck traveling for hours on end, to schedules alone, beyond that of the already taxing ones they have together, well. Seokmin doesn't think he would have the strength to do it. And yet, Mingyu does.

 

Is it burdensome, to have the attention on you all times? Seokmin would think so. Even in a group of twelve other boys, he feels the spotlight on him too acutely, more content to hide in the shadows of other personalities. Seokmin's confidence, though strong more days than others, is still lacking, and he hates to think of the anguish on days where Mingyu feels the same smallness in his chest, looking in the mirror only to find that he hates his reflection.

 

Even on these days, Mingyu would still have to be bundled out, because he is an idol, and idols are the kind of people who must stick to their schedules, even if it means working to the bone and being stitched together on a hope for a better day. To stay on top, one must always be out and about, appearing on shows, or radios, anything that will get their name out there.

 

Even when, Seokmin thinks, watching the way Mingyu traces circles on the couch, eye bags more prominent and deepset than his own, the tiredness eats you up alive.

 

Seokmin tends to forget, that Mingyu is younger than him. No one thinks in ages, in the societal importance of a birth year. Not in here anyways. They've been through far too much together to function otherwise.

 

He runs his fingers through Mingyu's hair, pausing to smooth the crinkles between his brows. At this rate, they're all going to wrinkle prematurely, and then his mother would  _ really _ kill him for working too hard. "Don't be burdened too much, Mingyu. You've done well." Seokmin thinks back to a blonde boy in a dressing room, with a curling lima bean smile. He taps once, twice, on Mingyu's heart. "I like you as you are."

 

"Some people don't." Mingyu crinkles his nose. "I read all the comments in the waiting room." He counts his fingers as he says them, and Seokmin feels his heart drop with the certainty that goes into each word, like he is already halfway there towards believing them. "He's too tall, he's got no manners, what's with his lisp, his skin is too dark." He looks up at Seokmin daringly. "Would you like me to continue?"

 

"Ah," Seokmin says instead. "Mingyu-yah."

 

Mingyu huffs. "Don't  _ Mingyu-yah _ me. I know, I know. It isn't good to think like this." His tone darkens. "It isn't becoming of Seventeen's Mingyu."

 

"It's not that," Seokmin shakes his head, and tries to channel his inner Wonwoo. He'd probably know exactly what to say in this kind of situation.

 

"Than what?"

 

Seokmin sighs, and ruffles Mingyu's hair. "I wish I could take this feeling from you." He taps on Mingyu's chest again absentmindedly, a fluttering of fingers again a slow-beating heart, and scrunches his nose. "Is it working? Soonyoung and I just watched that superhero movie, and this is what that guy does to drain people's powers."

 

"No," Mingyu says, too honestly, and eases him with another smile when Seokmin lets out an indignant noise. "But," he amends, "talking to you? Letting this out? It has helped a lot." Mingyu traces his heart — the spot Seokmin had touched before — with a listless finger.

 

"Thank you." His crooked canines peek out a bit as he smiles. "It means a lot, I think."

 

"I know," Seokmin grins back down at him. "The praise of a genius such as myself? Priceless. That should last you a long while. You're good to go, Mr. Do-It-All."

 

Mingyu visibly rolls his eyes, hiding another snort into the palm of his hand. "And according to our birth certificates,  _ you're _ the older one."

 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Seokmin pesters.

 

"It  _ means _ ," Mingyu says, sitting up and shoving Seokmin over, "that you're a brat."

 

"Hey," Seokmin warns, putting a finger up warningly. "Just remember, Kim Mingyu. You started this."

 

"What does that mean?"

 

Seokmin grins, and whacks Mingyu over the head with a couch cushion. "It means  _ this _ !" He immediately hollers and jumps onto Mingyu, so he cannot possibly hope to fight back. Seokmin forgets that Mingyu has been hitting the gym lately, and so he slides off the extra body weight quite easily. Seokmin maneuvers himself so that the couch is between him and Mingyu, who grabs another pillow to arm himself.

 

"Lee Seokmin," Mingyu bellows, shaking the leather weapon in Seokmin's direction, "today is the day you die!"

 

"If you can catch me first!" Seokmin sticks out his tongue, and begins squealing in earnest when Mingyu climbs over the couch in attempt to catch him. They run around the dorm for a while, careful not to knock over anything but caught up in the thrill of being in a chase, chests heaving and smiles wide. Their laughter draws the other members into the fray, and when Seungkwan gets nailed in the head with a missile intended for Seokmin, all bets are off.

 

("Aren't you guys a little too old for pillow fights?" Jihoon asks, shaking his head as he toes off his shoes in the doorway. Junhui nails him in the face not too long after, as some sort of response, and then, of course it's every boy for himself after that.)

 

> **_MINGHAO._ **

 

Seokmin squints against the brightness of the sun, sweat already begin to pool under his armpits. The breeze is, admittedly, rather nice, but it does little to distract from the heat of midday, a pushy and demanding force on Seokmin’s energy. Wiping a droplet from his brow, Seokmin grabs his water and takes a deep gulp, letting out a satisfied sigh at the cold rushing down his throat.

 

The park that he and Minghao are at is small and secluded, with smatterings of children running and shrieking about, their parents taking the chance to doze under the shade of trees. It is a pretty place, still relatively untouched by the years of abuse that kids tend to unleash upon public property, and the green brings a smile to Seokmin’s heart, welcome after days and days of being cooped up in the practice room.

 

They are both splayed out in the grass, on top of an old picnic blanket Minghao had found when he had been cleaning out the storage room. He had approached Seokmin with a wide smile on his face, mainly because he had been the only one in the dorm with him at the moment, and because Seokmin is never the kind of person who makes plans; he sort of just goes along with everyone else’s. 

 

And so here they are, in a park, sitting on a tattered and worn blanket, enjoying the outdoors, in absolute silence. Minghao had encouraged Seokmin to take pictures with his phone — photography was a budding interest of the Chinese member; he had brought out his film camera, something so expensive Seokmin was nervous to breathe in its direction for fear of breaking it — while he fiddled around with the settings of his own photo-taking device.

 

Seokmin genuinely tried to do so for the first thirty minutes, but now too much time has passed, and too much sweat is causing his shirt to stick to his back in an icky way, and so now he’s stuck glumly snapping a picture every couple moments or so until his phone dies. 

 

He sees a beautiful butterfly settling onto a blade of grass not too far from them. In his haste to snap the picture, it comes out blurry and with a hint of his finger in the cam. 

 

“I’m no good at this,” Seokmin announces loudly, and drops his arm, phone camera dangling from his hands. “This is dumb.”

 

Minghao huffs, and doesn’t reply until he snaps another picture, one eye squinting and tongue out in concentration. “Just because you’re not good at it doesn’t mean that it’s dumb.”

 

“Those two just happen to go hand in hand together for me,” Seokmin protests sullenly, showing Minghao the last couple shots he had taken. Almost all of them feature a smidge of his fingers, creasing the otherwise pristine scenes before them. “See?”

 

Minghao giggles, light and fairy-like. “They have a nice … charm to them, I think.” 

 

“Liar,”Seokmin crinkles his nose, and pulls back to affix Minghao with a frown. “Tell the truth, Minghao. I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

 

Minghao shakes his head. “No, really.” He pulls Seokmin’s phone out from where it’s clutched tightly between fingers, and shows him the pitiful results from their impromptu photo shoot. Seokmin winces when he sees the clumsiness of his shots, at how they’re blurry at the edges in some and nearly obscured by his knuckles in others. Compared to Minghao’s, his look like they were taken by kindergarteners, though Seokmin’s sure even  _ they _ could do a better job than he. Kids are very technologically advanced these days.

 

“They’re endearing.” Minghao says firmly, resolutely. “They were taken by you, your  _ style _ .”

 

Seokmin has to laugh a little at that. “Photo by DK,” he says, making a jibe at Minghao’s recently opened Instagram, and also at the fact that their fellow 97liner, Mingyu, never gave Minghao credit where credit was due.

 

Minghao beams, mouth wide and open. “Yeah, exactly!” He adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses, fiddling with the strap around his neck, and something hits him. Minghao looks down at his camera, back at Seokmin, and down at his camera again, and offers the thing to Seokmin. “Wanna try?” 

 

Seokmin’s hands grow sweaty. “Me?”

 

Minghao nods. “Yeah, you, silly. Who else would I trust with my baby?”   
  


Seokmin shakes his head. “Not me. You should really reconsider.” He pales, even under the blazing heat of the sun. “What if I break it?” 

 

“You won’t.” Minghao is gentle and kind and reassuring as he pushes the camera into Seokmin’s hands. His hands are sure and strong as they guide and teach Seokmin how to handle the foreign object. Seokmin marvels at the quiet confidence oozing out of Minghao, at the way how he seems so very much in his element, despite only having picked up the hobby a few months ago. 

 

Minghao patiently explains to him the functions of each and every button, not at all exasperated or annoyed with the fact that Seokmin has a hard time grasping the concepts at first. Minghao even quizzes him, pointing to each and asking him their function. At one point in time, Seokmin grins unintentionally, because this had been Minghao, once, carefully repeating bulky foreign words in his mouth as they prepared for debut, eleven other boys rotating about and trying their best to serve as teachers for their brother. 

 

The ease and confidence in which Minghao speaks, directs him towards which is right and which is wrong, stutters hardly ever present anymore, brings a surge of affection and pride to Seokmin’s heart.

 

He wonders if the Minghao who had arrived at Pledis, mouth full of braces and knobbly knees scraped from b-boying on the asphalt of streets in a neighborhood hundreds of miles away, a boy trapped between two different languages, always shy and hidden in the back where it was safe, would be proud if he could see the person he has become now.

 

Seokmin would be. He  _ is _ , he thinks firmly, as Minghao directs him towards a new subject to capture, as he presses the shutter down. The picture comes out —  he will not go so far as to say  _ it’s beautiful _ , but it is looking very much less like a toddler took it —  more like the fancy photography that Seokmin usually sees plastered in showcases and in films, and Seokmin has to gasp a little at the wonder that seizes his heart. 

 

_ He _ did that.  _ Well _ , he amends,  _ we both did _ , turning to show Minghao the final product. The proud smile that unfurls across the other boy’s face as he reviews the picture (“We might just make an Instagram-er out of you yet, Seokminnie,”) puts a warm glow in Seokmin’s belly. 

 

“See?” Minghao shakes a finger at Seokmin, smile still present. “I told you. Your style. Photo by DK.”

 

Seokmin waves his hand, suddenly shy. “They’re nothing like yours, though. I’m still not very good.”

 

Minghao pats Seokmin comfortingly on the head as he slips his camera back around his neck. 

 

“You don’t have be good at it. Just enjoy the moment.” Minghao moves to stand up, and Seokmin follows him, watching as he begins to gently fold the picnic blanket. 

 

“It’s all about the little things, the memories you make. They’re not always pretty, and they’re not always perfect, but they’re there, you know? For you to have. For you to enjoy.” He taps the camera slung around his neck. “They’re in here. A memory you can touch.”

 

Seokmin grins, and throws an arm around Minghao’s shoulders, trying to ruffle his hair. “Since when did you become so well-spoken, our baby Minghao?” The effect is lost a little, because Minghao has grown taller in the past few months, much to Seokmin’s chagrin. He may be the eldest of the 97 liners, but in height, he is the baby now.

 

Minghao rolls his eyes, but the laughter that spills out of him betrays his true emotion, and retorts, “Since always, Seokmin, but you didn’t stop to listen.” Minghao shakes his head affectionately, pout exaggerated. “Look at you, always going too fast, never taking time to stop and listen to me. I’m hurt.”

 

“Hey,” Seokmin shoves a shoulder into him good-naturedly, “that’s  _ my _ thing, the pouting!”

 

“Okay,” Minghao acknowledges. “Make yourself useful then, and carry this back to the dorm. You can pout while you do it too, don’t worry.”

 

With a wiggle of his fingers, Minghao disappears over the top of the hill without another word, leaving Seokmin all to himself, a ratty smelly blanket to lug all the way back home in his hands. Seokmin chuckles at his boldness, and watches Minghao’s retreating back for a while before coming to his senses and following in his footsteps. 

 

> **_SEUNGKWAN._ **

 

He and Seungkwan are laid out on the couch, each in each other’s spaces. Neither of them mind the close contact— Seungkwan is a very touchy person anyways, as is Seokmin, and Seungkwan’s body is a comfort that Seokmin remembers well, having spent years and years being sandwiched against it, piled on top of it, and anything of that variety in pure exhaustion. Seokmin has been through everything and back with the boy from Jeju. They have been each other’s childhoods for as long as he can remember. 

 

There is an ache in Seokmin’s bones, deep and heavyset. He wonders if this is what Jeonghan meant when he said he was tired.

 

Seungkwan must be feeling the same, because all he does is let out a deep, bone-rattling sigh when Seokmin shifts a tiny bit to get more comfortable.

 

“Sorry,” Seokmin murmurs. 

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Seungkwan replies quickly. The tiredness in his voice soaks through easily, and Seokmin’s emotions skip in time to it too, resonating deeply with it. Lately, it has been harder and harder to get out of bed, the daunting task of the tackling the day ahead of him a monster he has yet to completely tame.  “It’s not you.”

 

“Ah,” Seokmin says. He fiddles with a lock of Seungkwan’s hair, teeth teasing his lips, wondering if he should talk about it. He’s always been a firm believer in using words to describe the things he is feeling, even though he has never quite been good at expressing them in ways others can understand. 

 

He forges ahead anyways: “Me too.”

 

Seungkwan sucks in a breath, sharp and slow, the hollow of his cheeks sharp under the lights. Seokmin’s heart aches at the sight. They have all gotten so gaunt as of late. It is easy to lie to each other when everyone else is facing the same burden, but it gets tough when left alone with such uneasy thoughts, uneasy feelings, uneasy hearts. It gnaws on the courage to continue. 

 

“Ah,” Seungkwan says, and reaches back blindly to pat Seokmin in comfort. Instead, he nearly takes out his eye, and they’re stuck between laughing and being too tired to laugh. All that comes out is a pained wheeze, an exhale shared in the space sandwiched in between the two of them.

 

“Yah,” Seokmin croaks, wiping tears from his eyes, chest heaving, “What do you think you’re doing, Boo Seungkwan? I knew that with the both of us being main vocals meant that we were going to be rivals, but after all we’ve been through, I didn’t think you were going to stoop to this low.” 

 

“I’m sorry!” Seungkwan wheezes, hands fluttering. “I didn’t mean it, I swear.” 

 

“ _ Suuuure _ ,” Seokmin teases, and gets a swat on his shoulder for his trouble. 

 

“Ingrate,” Seungkwan huffs. “I’m telling the truth, you know.”

 

Seokmin does not respond, just smiles into Seungkwan’s head of hair. He misses the close intimacy they once had; he got a brief whiff of it during their promotions with Just Do It earlier in the year, but since then Seungkwan has been cast in variety, whisked off to schedule after schedule, and in Seungkwan’s off time he sleeps until it is time to do his duties to Seventeen.

“Are you doing alright?” Seokmin asks absentmindedly, carding his fingers through Seungkwan’s hair. “It hasn’t been too tough on you, right?”

 

“I’m doing the best I can,” Seungkwan says instead. It is not a straight answer, but it will be the best that Seokmin gets. “Are you doing okay?”

 

“I’ve been better,” Seokmin admits, answer wholesome. “My voice cracks a lot lately, especially when we are recording. I think it’s because I haven’t been sleeping well lately.” He looks down at his hands. “I’m not as confident in my voice as I was before, and it’s harder to feel positive about things.”

 

“Ah,” Seungkwan makes a clucking sound with his tongue. “That’s not good. The sources of Seventeen’s energy are both losing juice.”

 

Seokmin makes a pained sound. “It sounds so much more serious when you say it like that.” 

 

“It’s true, isn’t it?” 

 

Seokmin does not answer. Seungkwan takes his silence as one, and he shuffles himself into a position that lets him look up at Seokmin, and curls a tiny hand around that of his own. “Listen, Seokmin, it’s not always a bad thing, to be out of energy.” Seokmin makes another sad sound. He is not entirely convinced; he has gotten praise for this part of him — the jokester, the one who raises spirits — so many times that if he can’t do it all the time, he just feels… useless.

 

Seungkwan smiles softly, and pats Seokmin’s cheek. “We cannot always be the sun. Even the moon replaces it once a day, for 8 hours, so it can rest.”

 

“That’s not how it works.” Seokmin frowns. “The earth is the one spinning around the sun. We just see the moon because we’re turned away from it. It still glows, no matter what.”

 

“It’s a metaphor, you dork.” Seungkwan rolls his eyes fondly. “Who told you that, anyways? Has Wonwoo finally corrupted you?”

 

“It’s simple science,” Seokmin says, a laugh spilling out of him. “It’s actually not that boring when you really think about it.” 

 

“Oh my god, he really did a number on you. Who  _ are _ you? Are you really Lee Seokmin?” Seungkwan leans up close, eyes searching the landscape of Seokmin’s face. “Listen, if you need help, if Wonwoo’s got the real you captive somewhere, and if this is some clone he’s created, blink once.”

 

Seokmin blinks. 

 

“I knew it!” Seungkwan crows, and suddenly they’re laughing so hard that tears spill out of their eyes and their arms are clutching at their bellies. This is the best sort of laughter, Seokmin thinks, when it’s not even that funny, except it  _ is _ , and you’re simultaneously gasping for air and in the midst of dying due to lack of it. 

 

After a solid fifteen minutes of excruciating pain, Seokmin manages to calm down the tumultuous laughter ripping itself out of his lungs and wipes the excess liquid from his eyes, and Seungkwan barely manages to do the same. 

 

“I forgot how stupid we are when we’re together,” Seungkwan wheezes, voice barely higher than a whisper. “I missed this.”

 

“Me too,” Seokmin says candidly. He forgot just how much Seungkwan and he relied on each other, and how much they fed off each other’s energies. Although it was true that both of them were Seventeen’s batteries, time spent apart rather than together tended to take a toll on them, and perhaps it was just this feeling that had manifested itself in the gloomy tiredness that they had been feeling earlier.

 

Seokmin forgets just how powerful it is, togetherness. Solidarity. The feeling of not being alone. Of course, the jagged ache in his bones is not completely alleviated, but it is left on hold, to take a toll on him another day.

 

“Earth to Seokmin,” Seungkwan says, tugging on Seokmin’s fingers, which are curled around Seungkwan’s waist. “Earth to Seokmin!”

 

Seokmin blinks out of his reverie, and gives his head a little shake. “Sorry, I was thinking about other things. What’s up?”

 

“I  _ said _ ,” Seungkwan’s voice is full of good-natured sass, and Seokmin can just imagine the giant pout on his face (Seokmin thinks that pouting is his thing, but Seungkwan most definitely does it better) already, “this battery needs a recharge.”

 

“Yeah?” Seokmin grins down at him. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

 

There’s a pause for a moment, and they both turn to each other with wide eyes before yelling, “Karaoke battle!”

 

Seokmin leaps up from the couch, eyes narrowed, voice suddenly serious. “Boo Seungkwan, I, Lee Dokyeom, challenge you, one of the main vocals of Seventeen, to a karaoke match. May the best vocal win.” 

 

“I accept,” Seungkwan tilts his chin up imperiously, before shooting Seokmin a devilish grin. “And that is going to be  _ me _ .”

 

“Like hell it is,” Seokmin spits. Seungkwan just makes another face at him, eyes daring Seokmin to prove it.

 

“What’s going on?” Junhui asks, voice soft as he steps inside, toeing off his shoes and tossing his jacket onto a chair.

 

“No time to talk!” Seungkwan yells, running down the hall to grab a jacket. “I’m going to defend my honor!”

 

“Yeah!” Seokmin echoes, darting the other way to grab his. “What he said!”

 

“You guys are weird,” Junhui shakes his head fondly, and watches them both wrestle each other to the door, brows furrowed in concentration, tongues sticking out in their efforts to beat each other out the door. “Have fun!” He hollers after them, even as they both flash him middle fingers in retaliation.

  
  


> **_HANSOL._ **

 

Seokmin flees from the crowd in a hurry, and sits in a corner, letting out a tired sigh as his head leans back against the wall. The clamor from their common room follows him, almost taunting in the joyous laughter that tumbles out from the door. His knees knock together, like they do when he’s terribly hurt or anxious, and right now he’s a bit of both.

 

He wishes he didn’t feel this way, and the immense guilt that pours out of him when he realizes the sole reason behind the swirling in the pit of his stomach is not something that helps ease the tumult inside his heart.

 

He looks up when the door opens, releasing another bout of wild laughter and cheering (as is the norm when living with twelve rowdy boys), which does little to assuage the funny feeling in Seokmin’s chest.

Hansol makes his way over to Seokmin, and plops down next to him with a soft  _ oof! _ There’s a little rustling as Hansol adjust his legs, and he nearly takes out Seokmin’s eye with the plastic tiara situated crookedly on his head, but little else is said as he settles in next to Seokmin.

 

“Hey bro,” Hansol grins, lopsided. Seokmin tries to return to the favor, but the smile, usually familiar, feels awkward on his mouth.  _ Please leave _ , Seokmin thinks meekly, but he knows the message won’t travel. Hansol has always operated on a frequency different than anyone else’s.

 

“We’re both the stars of this show,” Hansol offers, with a chuffy laugh. “I think they’d notice if both of the birthday boys were gone.”

 

“I don’t know,” Seokmin tries bravely to make his voice even. “I think Soonyoung’s doing a fine job of entertaining them, even if he is a whole lot tipsy.”

 

“That is true,” Hansol shifts his legs so that they’re sticking straight out. “Before I left, I think he was trying to pole dance with a chair.”

 

Seokmin tilts his head in confusion. “I don’t think that’s possible. Why not just do a lapdance? You already have a chair. You need a pole to pole dance, don’t you?”

 

“Soonyoung has always fan of believing in beating the odds.” Hansol shrugs. “It makes for really good blackmail, later, anyways.”

 

Seokmin lets out a real laugh at this. His phone is full of dumb videos of Soonyoung, and he can attest to Hansol’s statement — a lot of the content could serve a pretty price, considering that the elder boy would do anything to prevent them from making its way into the group chat. 

 

Hansol is rather perceptive despite the image he puts up of pretending not to be. Subtlety, however, is not in his nature, and it’s quite evident when he takes a deep breath, turns to face Seokmin, and asks, “What’s wrong?” point blank.

 

“Nothing,” Seokmin says, and winces at how high pitched his voice goes. Hansol gives him a Look, brows furrowed and mouth twisted into a frown. 

 

“Something’s wrong.” Hansol narrows his eyes. “What is it?”

 

“No, there isn’t!” Seokmin nervously wrings his hands together. “I just felt a little claustrophobic. Soonyoung was a bit too up in my space, I think.” He waves Hansol away and gestures towards the door earnestly. “You should go back in and celebrate. It  _ is _ our birthday party, after all.”

 

Hansol crosses his arms and returns back to his original position, back against the way and legs spread out. “Fine. Be that way. I won’t leave until you tell me, you know.”

 

The music dies down a bit, and Seokmin panics a bit at the prospect of being found in his current state, so he just flaps his hands at the other boy, hissing for him to go. Hansol gives him another Look and refuses to budge.

 

“This is me,” he says firmly, “not moving until you tell me what’s wrong.”

 

“Hansol,” Seokmin pleads, hands clasping and unclasping together as he worries. “Please just go back. I’ll only need a few moments, really.”

 

“Seokmin,” Hansol returns stubbornly. “I will not. Not until you tell me what’s up.”

 

Seokmin huffs, and knocks his shoulder into Hansol where they’re sitting on the floor. “Brat.”

 

Hansol grins, relaxing when he realizes that Seokmin has given up on coaxing him into returning to the party. “I know.”

 

A wild whoop pierces the air, a magnificent crash, and raucous laughter continues to spill into the room, albeit muted. 

 

“I think he managed to figure out how to pole dance with a chair,” Seokmin whispers to Hansol.

 

“I think so too,” Hansol says back, lips tilting up at the corners before turning back down and affixing Seokmin with a scrutinizing glare. “Hey, stop changing the subject on me.”

 

“I’m not doing it intentionally,” Seokmin protests, shrinking in on himself. He tucks his knees in towards his chest, and flings his arms around them, hugging them so that they don’t knock together too obviously. It does not work, but it comforts him all the same. 

 

“Seokmin.”

 

“Hansol.” Seokmin’s voice quavers, on the last bit.

 

Hansol lets out another frustrated huff, and despite however bad Seokmin is feeling, he really just wants to give him a big hug for being so adorable. 

 

“What’s wrong, birthday bro? You can’t be sad when there’s a party, that’s like law, or something.” Hansol squints. 

 

Seokmin doesn’t answer, and traces figure eights into the floor of the carpet, silent. “It’s dumb and stupid,” he finally settles on, voice small. 

 

“Nothing is dumb or stupid.” Hansol says simply, and Seokmin yearns for the naivety that colors the phrase. When people say things like that so earnestly and so freely, it reminds you of the good that still exists in the world. In people. In their beliefs. “C’mon, I’m here. I’ll listen to you. Promise.”

 

“I’m a horrible person.” Seokmin mutters miserably into the palms of his hands. The feeling curls its way around his heart, and tugs.

 

“You’re like, one of the best people I know,” Hansol places both his hands on Seokmin’s shoulders and turns him forcibly so that they’re facing each other, gaze sure and steady. “And even then, you’re allowed to be horrible, even for a split second. Nobody’s perfect. Nobody’s expecting you to be, either.”

 

Seokmin cracks a tiny smile. “Thank you.” He plays with the hem of his shirt before groaning and shoving his face into his knees. “Oh, but I  _ am _ a horrible person. I really am. I’m going to tell you, and you’re going to hate me, and the party will be  _ ruined _ —”

 

“Relax,” Hansol soothes. “I’ve lived with you for too long, vices and virtues and all, to hate you. We’ll be alright after this.”

 

Seokmin lifts up his head a bit, one eye cracked open. “Really?”

 

“Really  _ really _ ,” Hansol murmurs. “We can even pinky promise on it, if you’d like.”

 

Seokmin shakes his head, giggling a little. “It’s okay. I believe you.” He takes a deep breath, and steels himself before letting out what has been eating at him for a long while. “I’m jealous that I have to share a birthday with you.”

 

Hansol looks at him with the most perplexed face, and Seokmin cannot bear to be the center of such misdirected attention, so he plows on, voice hurried and fragile. 

 

“And I know that’s  _ bad _ , and we’ve shared a birthday for so long, so how could I be jealous now? It’s ridiculous, really, now that I’m saying this aloud, but I am jealous, ‘cause everyone else gets their own parties and own gifts and own v-lives, but I don’t, and for some reason particularly I’m choosing to fixate on this right now instead of partying and having fun like I usually do.”

 

Seokmin groans and throws his entire body onto the floor to avoid Hansol’s questioning gaze, face burning with shame. “You can kill me now,” he says, muffled, to any higher being out there that is listening. “Preferably with a strike of lightning. That would be really cool, and really appreciated.”

Because Seokmin’s luck is quite poor though, nothing bad happens to him in the moments following.

 

Hansol lets out a loud burst of laughter instead. “See? Was that so bad?”

  
“You’re not mad?” Seokmin asks, incredulous, head popping up in confusion. 

 

“No?” Hansol cocks his head. “Am I supposed to be?”

 

“I don’t know?” Seokmin sits up, teeth worrying his bottom teeth. “I think you should be.”

 

Hansol straightens up then, brows furrowing, intending to look imposing, but all that Seokmin sees is a tiny dog trying to masquerade itself as a bigger one.

 

“What are you doing?” he finds himself asking. 

 

“Being angry,” Hansol says, and then crouches down to stage whisper. “Is it working?”

 

“No,” Seokmin laughs into the palm of his hand, “I don’t think you’re doing a very good job.”

 

“Darn,” Hansol snaps his fingers mockingly, then turns to Seokmin with a kind expression. “It must be because I’m not angry at you.” 

 

“But shouldn’t you be?” Seokmin says, before his brain can stop him. “I’m the older one here.”

 

“That doesn’t stop you from having feelings,” Hansol frowns. “You’re allowed to feel this way, just don’t bottle it up. That’s not very good for you, or the people around you.”

 

“Oh,” Seokmin says, because apparently his vocabulary is very limited when faced with people who are too kind and understanding and good for him to comprehend. 

 

“Yeah,” Hansol rolls his eyes. “Oh. Stop being a drama queen, dummy. You can be yourself when you’re with me, okay? None of this ‘hiding my feelings’ stuff. It’s very repressed teenager. We’re in 2018, Seokmin. Sharing our feelings is very  _ in _ right now.” He points a finger in what Seokmin’s sure is intended to be in a threatening manner, but Seokmin feels a large amount of vague amusement and affection for the other boy instead. “Got it?”

 

Seokmin takes a moment to take in the seriousness in Hansol’s face, the genuine warmth and care in the words that he had chosen to say, and the urge to thank the stars for putting himself in the paths of souls as kind as him grows large and vast in his chest. 

 

“Got it.” Seokmin nods, and reaches over to straighten Hansol’s crown before giving him a hand up. “Now, we got a party to catch, don’t we?” 

 

> **_CHAN._ **

 

Seokmin watches the way Chan directs the other members with a fond smile on his face. He sees the shy confidence peeking out just a bit, shaping the way Chan directs them all to their places. Seokmin admires the concise way with which the other boy speaks, the surety of his advice, the way he becomes so very comfortable when placed in his environment, in an area of his expertise.

 

He remembers a time when Chan was quiet and mousy, unsure of where to step, how to act, especially as the youngest of them all. The frustration his dongsaeng must have felt when there were no other members alike in age to hang onto, when things got tough; everyone else in the group had at least one other to latch to when the pressure swallowed them whole. Seokmin’s heart had hurt for him, back then. Sometimes, it aches, even now, to think of the burden heavy on Chan’s shoulders, to be so young and faced with the pressure of schedules as hectic as theirs.

 

Chan seems to be wearing it well, and even though he has passed adulthood gracefully, Seokmin thinks there is always going to be a part of him that remains Seventeen’s giant maknae, Dino. There is always going to be a part of Chan that, to him, will invariably remain young. 

 

Before Seokmin knows it, practice comes to a close for the day. The relieved huffs that escape all of their lungs at the CEO’s announcement seems to hover in the moment for a split second, and then they are all dispersing, grabbing their things and sprinting out of the room. It is only eleven o’ clock, Seokmin notes, and if he hurries he can catch his favorite restaurant, the one that serves  _ the best _ comfort food in all of Seoul, before it closes.

 

Seungcheol lets out a loud  _ YAYAWOO _ in retaliation. Jihoon just shakes his head fondly at their leader; Mingyu and Minghao lean their heads together, probably debating where they want to go out to eat, while Seungkwan immediately glues himself to Hansol’s side, and Soonyoung tags along, dragging Wonwoo by the wrist to make sure that he gets in the food he needs too. Junhui, Jeonghan and Jisoo band together, teasing one another as they eventually make it their way out the door and towards the night.

 

Seokmin is one of the last one to leave, because he had knocked over something accidentally and had to put it back together before he left, but as he turns back behind him, he realizes that Chan is not following.

 

“Chan?” Seokmin asks, tentative. “Are you coming?” 

 

Chan looks up from where he’s sitting, as if embarrassed to be caught like this. “Ah, hyung!” There’s a sheepish smile that unfolds, and a hand that reaches to touch the back of his neck bashfully. “I have some things that I still need to work on, so you can go first.”

 

Seokmin takes a leaf out of a boy from Daegu’s book, back when they were still trainees, and shakes his head stubbornly, walking over to where Chan’s things lie, and sits down, criss-cross applesauce.

 

“What are you working on?” Seokmin asks, acting as normal as he can. The thing with Chan, he knows, is to never let him that know that you intend to handle him with kid gloves, because he works to hard to try and shed the image. It doesn’t deter any of the members from cooing over him, though, which Seokmin knows drives him out of his mind with frustration. Seokmin is oddly good enough at catching the things people would rather keep hidden, like the tiny clenched fists Chan sometimes covers with long sleeves, pulling fabric tight over bony knuckles. 

 

“I can help, if you want.”

 

Chan bites his lip and looks towards the door. “Shouldn’t you leave soon? The shop will close soon.” He offers a tired smile. “It’s just a couple of run throughs, really. I’ll be fine, Seokmin. Promise.”

 

“Well,” Seokmin says stubbornly, “I’ve already sat back down, and I think I’m too tired to get back up, so I’ll just watch you then.”

 

Chan opens his mouth to protest, but Seokmin interrupts him with a stern, “It’ll be good for me.” He softens the blow with a tired grin, leaning back on his hands. “Besides, I’m not the best dancer. You’ll teach me some things while I’m here, of that I’m sure.”

 

Chan hides his shy smile again, ducking his head, but quickly throws out a teasing, “Your loss, hyung. Suit yourself,” before Seokmin can comment on it. He goes to turn on the music, a pitched version of their anticipated comeback, and carefully takes his place, eyes only on himself in the mirror.

 

Seokmin forgets, sometimes, how mesmerizing it is to watch Chan dance. They get caught up in schedules so much, rushing from place to place without seeing head nor tail of each other, especially since Seokmin is in the vocal unit while Chan has a solid place in performance (though if Seokmin’s being honest, Chan could easily find a home in all three). Seokmin hardly has time to see their maknae at all, and when he does get the chance, he can only be awed by the way Chan has grown into himself. 

 

There is no hesitation, only cool grace and sharpness in a style that Seokmin wishes he could replicate. The confidence in Chan’s steps, the sure footedness his feet encompass, the way he seems to float in air for a brief moment before slamming back down, sneakers squeaking in the emptiness of the practice room — it is an art all in itself. That’s all there is. That’s all that can be said about it.

 

When Chan finishes, the slight heaving of his chest and the sweat glistening down the side of his forehead are the only indicators that he’s tired at all. Seokmin takes this moment to clap, first slowly, then all at once, clamorous and deafening. He even throws in some whooping and hollering at one point, he’s sure.

 

“That was good,” Seokmin says, handing Chan a towel as he sits down. 

 

“Thank you,” Chan grins, wiping his forehead. 

 

“It’s the truth.” Seokmin shrugs. “I mean it, you know.”

 

Chan laughs, and the sound bounces off the walls, echoing off the mirrors. It’s a pleasant sound. Seokmin thinks Chan should let the sound out more often, instead of acting so serious all the time. He gets it, but — Chan really is the last of them to ever grow up, and Seokmin wishes he would treasure it a bit more.

 

“Thank you,” Chan repeats, this time more shy. “I’ve been working to get my movements sharper, so they’re on the  _ bah! _ part and so it can look better when we’re all together.” 

 

“It’ll look fantastic,” Seokmin promises him, and reaches out to ruffle his hair, voice automatically turning into a coo. “Ah, look at you, so grown, so mindful of your other hyungs.” Seokmin squishes Chan’s sweaty cheeks in between two hands. “ _ Aigoo _ , we should work harder, just like you~”

 

“ _ Ey _ ,” Chan scrunches his nose, batting away at Seokmin’s hands. “I’m not a kid anymore. You can stop using baby-speak on me.”

 

Seokmin continues on infuriatingly, grin spreading wide as he cheekily squishes Chan’s face again. “But what would be the fun in that?”

 

“Fine, go ahead,” Chan grumbles good-naturedly, his shoulders slouching as he resigns himself to the coddling for the rest of eternity. Seokmin’s attention span is awfully short anyways, so Chan knows that all he has to do is wait until something else catches Seokmin’s attention.

 

“Oh!” Seokmin says, suddenly reminded of something that had popped up when Chan had been reviewing the steps. “Can you teach me how you do the bridge? I’m having trouble with the fluidity of the dance, and making it as sharp as you do.”

 

“Yeah!” Chan springs up right away, most likely glad to be rid of Seokmin’s annoying hands, but also excited to be consulted about something by one of his elders, judging by the gleam in his eyes. “For sure.”

 

They run through the movements a couple times, Chan completely unafraid to call out Seokmin when he makes a mistake. Seokmin protests good-naturedly at the bluntness of his comments, to which Chan just soothes with an affectionate pat on his shoulders, claiming that “tough love is the best kind of medicine”.

 

“Brat,” Seokmin says begrudgingly, under his breath. 

 

“You’re the one who asked for my help,” Chan cheekily reminds him, and Seokmin  _ just _ manages to resist the urge to smack the boy on the head.

 

In all honesty though, when they leave the practice room finally at around one in the morning, Chan’s head leaning on Seokmin’s shoulder in exhaustion, sleep tugging at both their eyes, Seokmin is so much more confident in his movements during the dance. He takes one look at the adult-boy, sweat soaking through the back of his shirt, years and years of tireless dedication and exertion building his very foundation, and feels something in his heart tug.

 

He remembers the tiny boy they used to toss around in the green room, the lovable maknae who had godawful hair but a shining personality to outshine it all, the cool kid who was showered with massive amounts of compliments when he finally had his own stage to own. How many hours did he have to put in for this? How many hours of their childhood did they spend together? How much of the Chan that stands here today, leaning heavily on Seokmin’s shoulders, is a result of all the love Seventeen has poured into him? Perhaps, more importantly, how much of Seventeen is a result of all that Chan has poured into them?

 

Seokmin thinks, as they sleepily shuffle out the door, as he shuts off the lights, that the best thing about playing a part in helping someone grow up is realizing how much they have reached back and touched you, too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They are all gathered in the basement of their building, in the bummiest of clothing, the clock nearly reaching midnight. With all the schedules lately, and because of the fact that they no longer all occupy a single dorm, it has been rather difficult to gather all thirteen boys in one place. But Seungkwan had a break in his shooting for Unexpected Q, and Mingyu (finally!) does not have a variety show to attend, and so, being the kind of boys they are — the kind of family they are — they have made the effort to come together. 

 

Sometimes, they just sprawl across the floor, not unlike they are doing now, and breathe in their success; a green room and a crowd of boys with scruffy, unbleached and undamaged hair seems so far away from now. Three years is a short and a long time all rolled up into one, if you think about it hard enough, when you think about all the things you’ve lost in order to gain the things you have now.

“We’re proud of you, you know,” Seungcheol says, in the middle of expressing his gratitude at the members for always being dutiful, for always working hard. He ruffles Seokmin’s hair, and Seokmin is taken back to memories of a gummy smile in a practice room.  

 

It is different, Seokmin thinks, to be told something you already know. He thinks it is because even though he knows it is a truth,  it has never been given a name, never been given a voice, and so because of that, it stands suspended in some universe between fantasy and reality, just waiting to be upended into being. Seokmin thinks _We’re_ _proud of you_ might just be the best way to say _We love you_.

 

Seokmin grins that watery smile of his, and tosses his arms around all of them the farthest they can go. He thinks he manages to ruffle Chan’s hair with one hand and gets to tickle Seungkwan on the side with another, so it’s a victory, in his book. He gives one last, giant squeeze, pours all the love he has in his being for the twelve boys around him, and hopes. Hopes that they can feel the warmth from his heart, all the words he wants to say but knows will never get out, thanks to the giant lump in his throat— he is  _ such  _ a crybaby sometimes, really.

 

“Yeah,” Seokmin mumbles into a mess of boy, reveling in the feeling. Of being loved. Of loving, wholeheartedly. Of family. “I know.”

 

> **_FIN._ **

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you endlessly for sticking through that if you have made it here. i tried to make it a sort of thing where seokmin picks up a little something from each of his brothers,,, i'm @dksuns on twitter if you'd like 2 cry about this w me, and uh.... thats about it!! til next time, rhhb <3
> 
> for reference:
> 
> seungcheol - endless compassion/selflessness, how it is to care for someone other than yourself.  
> jeonghan - being patient enough listen. people are saying things all the time, you just have to strain your ears to hear them.  
> shua - there is strength in being gentle.  
> junhui - discovering a sort of confidence that lies in being you  
> soonyoung - accepting the love that comes to you.  
> wonwoo - to read in between the lines, and knowing that it’s okay to be read like an open book.  
> jihoon - learning when to shoulder burdens alone and when to lean on others.  
> mingyu - sometimes who you are is a tough pill to swallow, not for you, but for other people. don’t let that affect who you can be.  
> minghao - take the time to stop and smell the roses. take a moment to enjoy the pretty things.  
> seungkwan - you don’t always have to be the best version of you there is. you don’t have to shine all the time.  
> verny - how to share, and realizing that it’s not all that bad to let people look at that side of you.  
> chan - being young, and yet still being able to make a difference in the lives that you touch, if you work hard enough.


End file.
